


Lost in a Dream

by scribdyke



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, yes the title is the chorus of an amaranthe song don't worry about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribdyke/pseuds/scribdyke
Summary: After regaining consciousness in Dawnstar's inn following a dragon attack, a young Telvanni mage with troubled history repays her debt to the elderly priest who saved her, and uncovers some interesting secrets about who he used to be.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Lost in a Dream

Warmth, and dryness...and a dull pain in her bones. She was somewhere- somewhere she had not been when she thought back to what she last remembered. She was inside. And somehow, she was alive.

That last part was what confused her the most. She remembered fleeing from a dragon- a dragon! It hadn’t been like the one in Helgen, but it was a dragon no less, and its Voice was colder than anything she had ever felt, like it spoke with the essence of Skyrim itself. It should have killed her. She should have been dead. But she wasn’t. She was, perhaps, safe.

When she began to stir, someone very close by reacted, with an accent similar to hers, but almost as if it was forced and not natural. “Ah, my daughter. You’re awake. How do you feel? You were in very bad shape out there.”

At first, her eyesight was blurry, but after a moment, she could see clearly. While the words had nearly made her think she was back in Morrowind with her father, in her Grandfather’s tower, nothing could be farther from the truth.

The ceiling above her was wooden, unlike the inflammable fungi structures of Morrowind’s Great House Telvanni, and a chill slithered through the cracks in the planks that was far too icy to be from the volcanic province. A fire crackled somewhere nearby, and she heard a lute being played by a singing woman whose voice was distinctly not that of a Dunmer.

Confused and slightly afraid, but grateful that she had not been killed, she turned her head towards the man who had spoken, not raising herself from the unfamiliar bed she lay in. A thousand questions danced at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t ask them all at once.

“It’s alright. I’m here for you. Do you remember anything?” He was an old Dark Elf, in a priest’s attire, with ancient, knowing sadness in his deep red eyes, an unkempt beard, and long tangled hair that was beginning to turn gray. There were prominent wrinkles in his face that worsened as he furrowed his brow. “I found you in the snow just outside Dawnstar while I was out for a walk. You were severely frostbitten, dehydrated and nearly dead. I brought you to the inn and treated you as best as I could. Luckily, it seems you’re doing much better.”

That explained a lot, including the icy soreness spread throughout every inch of her being. She must have been hurt worse than she remembered.

“I...got lost,” she told him. “I ran out of food...a dragon attacked me...and I had to flee it...it had frosty breath, and I don’t do good in the cold...I got away but I was so hungry and tired I think I collapsed, and I thought it was still chasing me, and I don’t remember anything after that…” 

He nodded compassionately. “I thought you might not recall everything. That’s alright. My name is Erandur. I serve Lady Mara.”

That took her aback. Mara was not, and never had been, amongst the pantheon worshipped by Morrowind’s native Elves. The Imperial Cult believed in Her, but for the ashen Dunmer, the Tribunal and Reclamations had always been at the forefront of any worship, alongside the individual ancestors of each family, including the young Elf’s own. In her past, the few believers of other gods she had met had not been...welcoming to the Daedra that she loved, nor her beliefs about them. Some- the fanatic worshippers of Stendarr- had even wanted her dead.

“Then why did you save me?” Her fingers clutched at the sheets beneath her, hidden by the swathes of blankets warming her body. Many years had passed since she had left her homeland, and in those years, she had been entirely on her own, relying solely on her stealth to steal food and money and her magic to heal her wounds and illnesses. The idea of a man she didn’t know- one who worshipped the Divines, no less- rescuing her was bizarre. The Dunmer were not a people of kindness, and the Empire was not one of open arms. “I’m not from around here- and I worship Daedra. Most priest types...they don’t like that. And I haven’t been in Skyrim long, but it doesn’t seem like outlanders are welcome here, especially not with the war. So...why did you bother bringing me here?”

Erandur almost seemed offended at the notion he might have abandoned her. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and scoffed. “What did you expect me to do? Leave you to die? I should think not!”

“You don’t know me or anything about me. I could be dangerous. I have- nevermind. But it would’ve been easier to let me freeze, and safer, for you. What if I was a bandit? When I was in Cyrodiil, they wouldn’t have batted an eye. I don’t think most of the Nords here would’ve cared much, either. And back home...it’s not like people are nice just for the sake of it.”

She awaited an answer, but did not get one. Wordlessly, Erandur looked her over, that ancient sadness in his gaze growing, and when he next spoke, it was softly. “What is your name, my child?”

She hesitated. “I’m...I’m Hekatah. I’m a Telvanni...I’m from Morrowind, but I lived in Cyrodiil for a while, and I’m...I’m new to Skyrim.”

“That’s quite a nice name, dear.” He paused, and then continued, “Forgive me for prying, especially so soon after you came around, but you didn’t have any dreams, did you?”

She shook her head. “No. I was running from the dragon, and then I woke up here. That’s all.”

A sigh of relief. “Mara be praised...so travelers still have not been affected…”

“What do you mean?” Hekatah tried to rise, and gently, Erandur pushed her back down. “What’s going on?”

“Please, be still. I didn’t mean to alarm you. The people of Dawnstar have recently been plagued with horrible nightmares. I was afraid the same fate had befallen you, nothing more. There’s no need to panic.”

She sank into her covers, embracing the heat they provided. “Why are they having nightmares?”

Erandur glanced at the corner of the room. Hekatah’s most prized possession, the Daedric Lord Mephala’s Ebony Blade, was propped up against the wall. 

“I suppose it’s no harm to tell you. Clearly, you have intimate experience with Daedra.”

“So you did recognize me sword...but I wouldn’t call it intimacy. I’m...I’m not a bad person.” Her cheeks grew hot with a kind of shame that she was not accustomed to. “I worship the Three, that’s all. I was raised by a priest of Mephala. Or...me parents worship Mephala, anyway. I wasn’t...necessarily raised by them.”

She didn’t want to give away so much information about herself, but something about Erandur had the words spilling out of her mouth. 

“That’s the Ebony Blade. I’ve heard of it, locked away within Dragonsreach in Whiterun.” His brow knitted again, yet he didn’t seem as afraid as she would have expected a Mara worshipper to be in the face of Mephala’s champion. “I won’t ask how you came to acquire it, but the fact that you’re capable of wielding it means you’ve encountered the Daedric Lords.”

“I- I don’t- it’s not Daedric Lords in general. I have a sense for the True Tribunal- Azura, Mephala and Boethiah. I don’t know much about the others, and I try to avoid the House of Troubles…so the only Daedra that might cause nightmares that I know anything of is...the MadGod himself…Sheogorath...” She shuddered to speak the name, and Erandur moved to comfort her.

“No, Sheogorath is not the Daedra at work here. The people of this town are being plagued by Vaermina.”

“I don’t know...I don’t know much about her. I think she had some cults in Cyrodiil, but after the Oblivion Crisis, they frown on Daedra worship now.”

Erandur nodded slowly. “Then I’ll explain. She resides within the realm of Quagmire, a place in which reality shifts upon itself in seemingly impossible ways. From her citadel at the centre, she reaches forth to collect our memories, leaving nothing in return apart from visions of horror and despair. These nightmares mark her presence, not unlike a cough that marks a serious illness. I’m here to help these people before the damage becomes permanent. It’s fortunate that you did not dream, trust me.”

Silence stretched between them. The air was a bit tense, but Erandur had a disarming charm to him, and though aid was something Hekatah was not accustomed to, the selflessness he had displayed in caring for her and the genuinity with which he talked to her as his child had made the young Elf finally feel at peace.

“I...I want to help you,” she said finally. “If you think you can fight a Prince…I want to help. I have Mephala at me side. I can help...”

“I would rather you rest, my daughter.” Erandur put a hand on her shoulder. “I will need to return to the source of the problem- to Nightcaller Temple. It could be dangerous, and although I am a healer, you aren’t quite well.”

“I’m usually being held together by Restoration magic, I’ll be fine.”

He blanched. “That’s...not really a good thing.”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

“Please. At least let me get you something to eat, now that you’re awake.” Erandur rose. “Personally, I’ve always found that stews work best when I’m ill. Horker stew is rather common around here; would you accept some?”

“I’m not rude enough to turn down a meal...thanks, sera.”

“Don’t thank me, my dear. It would be cruel to let you starve. Wait here.”

He returned shortly with a large steaming bowl of soup and politely withheld conversation until she was finished. “Did that help some?”

“Quite a bit, thank you.” She set the empty bowl aside on the nightstand next to her bed, atop which lay her twin daggers and their sheathes. “Oh, me knives...I’m glad you found those, I was worried I’d lost them. So, um…”

“You’re going to insist on coming to Nightcaller with me, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine. And I owe you.”

Erandur exhaled harshly. “Very well. I suppose you’d likely follow me even if I tried to stop you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we should at least wait for you to feel better. I won’t try to stop you, but I won’t put you in any more danger than necessary. Please rest for now.”

Satisfied that he had accepted her offer, Hekatah obeyed. In the weeks she spent recovering, they did not talk much, but occasionally, he asked her about Morrowind, and she began to get the impression that the reason he sounded like he was feigning his Dunmeris accent was that he was.

In a fortnight’s time, with help from the elder healer’s magic, she felt almost as good as new, and requested to accompany Erandur to the place of Vaermina’s influence.

He agreed, but she could see that he was still hesitant about her coming with him, and perhaps had been hoping her rest would change her mind. Still, he did not argue, and kept his word. “Alright then. Nightcaller Temple is only a short walk away. But you will at least wear a cloak, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry, I think I have five or six robes on in total.”

“Right...then we should hurry.” He lit a torch and led her outside, and pointed at a crumbling tower in the distance. “That tower on that hilltop is our destination. People around here call it the Tower of the Dawn.”

“That’s stupid.”

Erandur gave her a disapproving look, but otherwise ignored the comment as he climbed the winding, snow-covered path to the temple, and continued explaining. “I’m not familiar with the tower’s history, but it was deserted for quite a long time before Nightcaller Temple was established inside. When the temple was active, the priests would rarely be seen in Dawnstar. They preferred to live a solitary existence. The temple's been abandoned for decades now. Ironic isn't it...a ruin within a ruin?”

“Aye…”

“There's a small shrine to Mara I established inside the tower's entry hall. I was hoping to seek spiritual guidance from Her. Perhaps my prayers were answered and your reason for stumbling across Dawnstar is more than a mere coincidence.” 

Hekatah looked away. “I don’t really know that Men’s gods are fond of me. Or that they would touch me at all.”

“Oh?” He stopped for a moment and studied her, and then continued, saying, “Follow me, it's this way. It feels good to finally have a chance to help these people. Helplessly watching them suffer has been difficult.”

She did not answer, keeping at his heels speechlessly until they were at the tower’s entrance and he turned to face her with a stony countenance. 

“Now, before we enter, I must warn you once more of the dangers we may face. Years ago, this temple was raided by an Orc war party seeking revenge. They were being plagued by nightmares just like the people of Dawnstar.”

“So…?” Her words trailed off. 

“Knowing they could never defeat the Orcs, the priests of Vaermina released what they call “The Miasma”, putting everyone to sleep.”

“What the fuck is a Miasma?”

"The Miasma was created by the priests of Vaermina for their rituals. It's a gas that places the affected in a deep sleep. Because the rituals would last for months or even years, the Miasma was designed to slow down the aging process."

“So if they’re all asleep, why’s it such an issue?”

“I'm concerned that when this place is unsealed, the Miasma will dissipate and they'll awaken; both orcs and priests alike. We may be caught in the crossfire, or attacked outright.”

“I’ve lived by meself for years. I can handle a fight. What about the Miasma or whatever, is it dangerous too?”

"Sadly, yes. The longer an individual is exposed to the Miasma, the more the mind can become damaged. Those who've been under the effect of it for extended periods of time have been known to lose their minds entirely. In some cases, a few never awoke at all."

“I see. Well, that’s not gonna stop me. Let’s go.”

“Mm.” He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, leading Hekatah inside towards a second, sealed door. “Tch. Give me just a moment and I’ll have this open…”

The temple interior was old and crumbling, though Hekatah could see where Erandur had put in effort to restore it enough to live inside. One corner in particular had been refurbished, possibly through magic, and in that corner was the aforementioned shrine, a smoldering firepit with a kettle hung over the coals, and a bedroll with books stacked atop it. 

“How long have you been…?”

“Just a few weeks,” he answered before she had finished asking, and then a blast of fire from his palms opened the way. “Come. Now I can show you the source of the nightmares. This way.”

Down a winding set of stairs, barricaded by a lavender wall that looked translucent but felt as solid as iron, in the centre of the tower, was a staff. But it was a staff unlike anything she had ever seen. Even as she looked from above, the aura it radiated was foul, and its glowing eyes seemed to pierce through her flesh and bone into her heart. 

“Behold, the Skull of Corruption, the source of Dawnstar’s woes,” said Erandur softly, with awe in his voice, resting his palms on the railing. “We must reach the inner sanctum and destroy it. Come, there’s no time to lose.”

“Wait,” Hekatah stopped him. “Wh...what is that? What’s it doing that’s causing all this shit?”

“Lore holds that the Skull of Corruption holds a constant hunger for the memories of others,” he paused. “The Skull has been out of touch for so long, I fear it's gained the ability to reach out on its own and try to feed. What it does with these memories is just conjecture and an argument for scholars and historians to this very day."

“But we do know that it leaves behind nightmares…”

“Right. Now, then…” He approached the enchanted wall and pushed it. Nothing happened, and he scowled in a way that made Hekatah recoil. “Damn it! The priests must have activated this barrier when the Miasma was released.”

Hekatah prodded the semitransparent obstacle. “It looks...hard to breach.”

“Impossible, actually,” the older Elf said shortly. A beat of silence passed, and then his eyes lit up. “Hm! I wonder…”

He began to walk away. “There may be a way to bypass the barrier, but I must check their library and confirm it can be done.”

Hekatah followed after him. He was easy for her to keep up with- like her, he was not especially tall for a Dunmer, and thus his strides were not as long. 

“Hey,” she tried to pose the question carefully. Erandur was kind, but there had been flashes of darkness in his personality that almost seemed to be another person. “How come you know so much about this place?”

He rounded on her, and she flinched away, but quickly realized that his anger was directed inwards rather than at her as the spark of displeasure quickly dissolved into apologeticness. He did not look her in the face as he answered, and spoke quietly. “I suppose there's no point in concealing the truth any longer. My knowledge of this temple comes from personal experience. I was a priest of Vaermina. When the Orcs attacked, I fled. I left my brothers and sisters to die. I've spent the last few decades living in regret and seeking redemption from Mara. And by Her Benevolence, I will right my wrongs."

“I...I see. I didn’t…” She lowered her gaze. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry for asking.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, my daughter. I should have been honest with you from the start. I was ashamed, and I lied to you because of it. I hope you are still willing to help me.”

“Of course...I don’t think you would have saved me if you had still been...you know. One of them.”

A small smile flickered across his lips. “I’m glad to hear it. But I must warn you...past here, there are likely to be many Orcs and priests alike. Are you ready to fight?”

“Always.” Her response earned a slight wince from him.

“I still have my key to the library. Whenever you’re ready, let’s move on.”

“I’m ready.”

The library was circular and archaic, covered in dust and cobwebs, and scattered across the floor were the sleeping bodies of priests in moth-riddled robes and Orcs in outdated, tarnished heavy armour. Hekatah’s daggers slid from her sleeves into her palms, and Erandur grasped the cruelly spiked mace that hung at his thin rope belt. They walked lightly, almost silently, hoping that having shut the door behind them was enough to prevent the priests and raiders from awakening, but they were sorely disappointed.

Groaning, the haphazardly collapsed inhabitants rose to their feet, and then like a switch in a Dwemer ruin that suddenly activates a timeworn trap, the fire jumped back into their veins and they began attacking not only each other, but Erandur and Hekatah as well. And the battle was disturbing.

Hekatah had no qualms with killing. She never had. Her mother was an assassin for the Morag Tong, and her grandfather, who had raised her, had killed many, many political rivals in his time, and she, too, had murdered. When it came to ending the lives of her attackers, she took no pleasure in the act, but it was something that came naturally, something that felt normal. 

What disturbed her was the way Erandur carried himself in combat. There was sadism to his strikes and venom in his words, as he shouted savage ironies at his foes, yet when the last of the assailants had fallen back to the floor, dead, he turned towards her with the most genuine softness in his wizened countenance. “Are you alright? If you’re wounded, I can heal you.”

She didn’t know why his rapidfire changes in personality had upset her. Lying, deception and outright betrayal were the Dunmer’s way. It was not something that she should have been fazed by. 

But at the same time, he provided, in his mercilessness, a paradoxical sense of home and comfort. In the aftermath of the fight, as her heart began to beat more slowly, she realized that he had raged so violently in her defense, and in that, she found a kind of solace she had not had in many years. 

“I’m alright. Thank you.”

He hung his now-bloodied weapon on his hip and sighed. “Then, barring any more interruptions, perhaps we can locate the information I need. We're looking for a book of alchemical recipes called _The Dreamstride_. The tome bears the likeness of Vaermina on the cover. It should be here somewhere."

Hekatah dipped her head and began scouring the library, much of which had been destroyed. As she pulled burnt book after burnt book from the shelves, she piled them atop each other, and Erandur, from the lower level, commented, "This library used to be filled with arcane volumes. Now look at it; almost everything's been burned. I hope the tome we need is still intact."

The minutes seemed to drag on like hours, and finally, after her fingertips had become black with soot, Hekatah found a large, beautiful book, the cover of which depicted a woman with long hair, fanciful robes, and snakes creeping along her shoulders. The title was written in Daedric script that she could not read, but she was certain she had found what Erandur required. 

“Oi, Erandur!” Calling him by his name felt odd. 

“What is it, my daughter?”

“I think I found the- the fuckin’...the book!”

He hurried up the steps to her and took it from her hands. “Let me take a look…”

She stood in silence as he flipped through its many gilded pages, his eyes narrowed, and she waited with bated breath for him to find the recipe he needed. Almost two-thirds of the way through, he finally stopped, and grinned. “Mara be praised! There is a way past the barrier to the inner sanctum. It involves a recipe for a liquid known as Vaermina's Torpor."

“Is that a potion? I’m not a very good alchemist...me family preferred using Restoration, and in Cyrodiil I didn’t have access to labs…”

“You won’t have to make it, but it is a potion. The Torpor grants an ability the priests of Vaermina called "The Dreamstride"; using dreams to travel distances in the real world."

“That...seems impossible. I don’t understand…”

"I assure you, the Dreamstride is well known in Vaerminian Lore. Sadly, I have yet to see it function in person." He closed the book and handed it back to her, adding with a sigh, “as a sworn priest of Mara, the elixir won’t work for me. The Torpor will only work for priests of Vaermina, or the unaffiliated.”

Hekatah’s heart dropped. “Then...we’re doomed.”

“What? What makes you say that?”

“Me Ebony Blade...I’m a worshipper of Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah. I’m not unaffiliated...I’m Mephala’s chosen. The Torpor won’t work for me, either. I’m sorry...I gave you false hope.”

The older Elf studied her intensely, running a hand along his beard. “Are you a priestess?”

“Huh?”

“Have you sworn yourself as a priestess?”

“No, but I…”

“Then the Torpor will work. Regardless of who you worship in your personal life, unless you’ve taken oaths to become a priestess, the Torpor will not react to you as it would someone like myself.” Again, he put his hand on her shoulder, something that in the short time she had known him, she had come to expect. “I appreciate your concern, though. You’re doing just fine.”

“Ah…” she felt her face grow warm. “Thank you…”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

“Um...I have one more question, though...what’s it gonna feel like? The Dreamstride.”

Erandur laced his fingers together thoughtfully. "You'll be viewing the memory of another through your own eyes and with your own body. Those around you will perceive you as normal and you will find the words you utter may not be your own. Thanks to all of these odd principles, there is quite a lot of debate as to whether this is really a dream or just the machinations of Vaermina. Now, then...I believe there is a laboratory in the east wing. If we proceed there, we should be able to locate a sample. Be ready to face more of the awakened.”

Her daggers dropped back into her hands, and she followed him cautiously to the lab, where, as he had predicted, more Orcs and priests alike began to rise, and once again that kindly exterior dropped as Erandur destroyed skulls and faces, all the while uttering such callous phrases as “feel the benevolence of Mara” in the heat of raging battle. Yet, just as before, once things had settled, he fell right back into that loving old man, and this time, Hekatah was not afraid. 

In her lack of fear, however, she noticed something that she had failed to observe beforehand; that Erandur, when all was said and done, looked upon the fallen Vaermina worshippers with pain etched into his visage. She remembered that he had been amongst their numbers once, and wondered if, by agreeing to help him in his endeavor, she had accidentally forced him into slaying his former friends. She did not ask, though, and rather, set about to find the Torpor as requested. Like the library, much of the alchemy lab had been destroyed. Shattered vials littered the floor, forcing her to watch her step, and even if she had been able to create potions, the stations had been upended and all but devastated. 

But in a stroke of luck, a small, sparkling blue bottle different from any kind of potion she had ever seen remained. She lifted it, holding it up towards the torches that somehow still burned on the wall, and watched its swirling, mesmerizing contents. The liquid it contained was every colour at once, and yet it seemed perfectly clear, and she could have sworn that if she squinted, her own memories danced in its ripples. Clashes between Redoran warriors and Argonian invaders, her grandfather’s face, her mother’s back as she left her daughter in the Telvanni Archmagister’s care...but then she blinked and it had all disappeared, leaving her feeling a bit hollow inside. 

“I...I found it,” she approached Erandur with the Torpor in hand. “I know this is it. I can tell.”

His gaze travelled across her face, eyebrows scrunched together in what was probably concern, but he did not question her. “I'm relieved you discovered a bottle intact; this place looks as though it was ransacked by the orcs. So... I've taken us this far, but you need to guide us the rest of the way. Drink."

She uncorked the bottle and raised it to her lips, but wavered. A jittery nervousness had overtaken her body.

"Dawnstar's fate rests in that tiny bottle. The longer we wait, the more damage Vaermina could be doing to those poor people. I understand your hesitation, but I promise you that it works." He urged her. 

“Tell me one thing,” she demanded, her voice quivering. “What will make me wake up?”

He lowered his eyes sympathetically. "I will watch over you as you slumber to ensure your safety. If I deduce anything is amiss, I will use my arts to bring you back. Otherwise, I am uncertain what will end your Dreamstride. Perhaps when Vaermina's curious appetite has been filled."

“So I could die?” A note of panic overtook the words. “I’m only twenty-two. I- I want to go back to Morrowind, see me grandfather again...I want to become a great Telvanni magister. I’m- I’m not ready to die!”

Erandur gave a slow nod. 

"I will not lie to you, there is some risk involved. The last time the Torpor was imbibed could have been decades ago.” He took her by the upper arms with a grip that was a little bit too tight. “But I swear upon Lady Mara that I will do _everything_ within my power to prevent any harm from befalling you." 

That was good enough for her. If he had managed to save her after she was attacked by a dragon...his magic was good enough to protect her from the damned potion. 

So she drank. The liquid was sweet and sour, salty and savory, and it burned her throat with an icy chill. And then she awoke in a different body- more firmly built, taller, but still a Dark Elf. 

She was still in Nightcaller Temple, too. Her vision was blurry, especially in the peripherals, and she could not control her movement. Before her stood two of the acolytes, a Dunmer and Nord.

“The Orcs have breached the inner sanctum, Brother Verek,” said the Nord. 

Said the Dunmer, “We must hold. We can’t allow the Skull to fall into their hands.”

"But... no more than a handful of us remain, brother,” said the Nord. 

The Dunmer’s jaw was set, his stare stony. "Then we have no choice. The Miasma must be released."

"The Miasma? But, brother..."

The Dunmer shook his head, speaking firmly. “We have no alternative. It's the will of Vaermina. And what about you, Brother Casimir? Are you prepared to serve the will of Vaermina?"

Then Hekatah spoke, but her mouth moved without her permission, and her voice was a man’s, and it sounded familiar, but the accent was not one a Dark Elf should have had. “I’ve made my peace. I’m ready.”

Veren inhaled deeply. “Then it's decided. Brother Casimir, you must activate the barrier and release the Miasma. Let nothing stop you. Brother Thorek, we must remain here and guard this Skull with our lives if necessary."

The Nord nodded, adjusted his robes, and stiffened his shoulders. “Agreed. To the death."

"Then let it be done. Farewell, my brothers!" Veren raised his hands in farewell, and Hekatah’s body took off running. She knew, somehow, that she was running as fast as she could, and also that the terror in her bones was not her own. She was a detached consciousness experiencing everything this Casimir had felt, and nothing that she herself felt. She ran, pushing Orcs and priests alike out of her way, stumbling over her feet, until she reached a room with two chains. Her hand reached out to pull the trigger, and as soon as her skin hit metal, she woke up on the floor of Nightcaller Temple, with the barrier from before between her and an amazed, concerned Erandur.

Carefully, she rose to her feet, and inspected herself. She was Hekatah again, if a little bit of a wobbly, disoriented Hekatah. 

Erandur gestured at the second chain, and she grabbed it. The barrier dissipated and he rushed over to her. 

“It worked! Mara be praised! Are you alright? How do you feel? You look rather pallid...”

She shook her head. “I’m...I’m a bit dizzy. It was a lot to take in...but I think...I think I’ll be okay in a moment. What...happened?”

“You vanished after drinking the Torpor and materialized on the other side. I’ve never seen anything quite like it!”

“I saw...I was a man. I was a Dunmer man, and I wasn’t able to control meself. It was like I was a passenger in a carriage.”

He sighed wistfully. “How I envy you. I can only imagine the excitement of seeing history through the eyes of another! Sadly, I am resigned to just reading of its wonders through my research of the Skull.”

“Speaking of which, we need to destroy that damned thing,” she reminded him, rubbing her temples.

“Ah...yes, of course. We can talk about the Torpor later. Let’s go. Follow me.”

As they walked down the winding halls, she noted that the blood had drained from his cheeks, and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. At his sides, his hands trembled. She wanted desperately to comfort him, but she did not know how, and soon, the reason he had been so unsettled became apparent. 

The Skull of Corruption was guarded by Veren and Thorek, just as it had been in her dream. When Erandur saw them, his expression became one first of joy, and then of dread, and Hekatah realized why the man in the Dreamstride had sounded so very familiar.

“V-Veren! Thorek! You’re alive!” Despite himself, he smiled, but he got no such warmth in return. 

Thoren instead bore his teeth in a snarl, and Veren’s response was poisoned with hatred. “No thanks to you, _Casimir_.”

“I no longer use that name,” said Erandur, stepping backwards, and puffing out his chest in some manner of faux confidence. “I’m Erandur. Priest of Mara.”

“You’re a traitor,” retorted Veren. “You left us to die and then ran before the Miasma took you. And now you’ve come back with another Daedra’s servant...you there, girl! Did you think we wouldn’t recognize the Ebony Blade?”

“I don’t give a damn if you recognize it or not. I’ll kill you with it if I have to. Erandur saved me life. I owe him.” 

Thorek strode forth and leaned down to Hekatah’s height to get right up in her face. “Are you prepared for him to leave you to die the same way he left us?”

She slapped him, hard, and he recoiled. 

“He’s a traitor, girl! He’ll leave you behind the moment his own ass is in danger! Isn’t that right, Casimir?”

Erandur’s skin had become completely ashy, and in the corners of his eyes, Hekatah was certain she saw tears. “No! I...I was scared! I wasn’t ready to sleep!”

“We’re going to destroy your stupid staff,” Hekatah craned her neck to meet Thoren’s glare. “If you try to fight us, I’ll kill you both meself.”

“Enough!” shouted Veren. “I can’t allow you to destroy the Skull, Priest of Mara, and champion of Mephala.”

Erandur drew his mace, but his hand shook, and his challenge was uncertain. “Then you leave me no choice!”

Thorek’s sword clashed with Hekatah’s Ebony Blade, but when Veren lunged for Erandur, the old priest did nothing to defend himself. 

And something inside Hekatah snapped. Although in her moment of decisiveness Thorek managed to strike her across the chest, her many layers protected her from serious harm, and she launched herself into Veren with a scream. Her frame was petite, but the rage she held towards the two men and their heartless words to Erandur carried her far. She and Veren skidded across the stone, stopping not even a meter away from the platform that held the Skull. 

“Damn you!” swore Veren, beating her with his mace to no avail. “Get off of me!”

She kneed him in the gut to keep him down and her palms began to glow with a golden light, a light that meant only one thing: Restoration magic. 

“What are you gonna do?” he sneered. “Heal me to death?”

Her face split open in a wide, serpentine grin that, despite his goddess having similar features, made his blood run cold. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

She grabbed him by the neck, with both hands, and emptied her Magicka into his body, building blood and adrenaline back up inside his veins, pumping Restoration into him beyond what he could needed, beyond what was healthy...and beyond what was survivable. Vaguely, she felt Thorek trying to attack her as well, but her focus was on her malicious act of kindness, and when Veren’s heart finally burst, Thorek was nowhere to be found.

“Hekatah.”

Erandur’s voice sounded far away, and she rolled off of Veren’s corpse, laying on her back on the floor, her whole figure heaving as she tried to breathe. 

“Are you alright, dear? I...I was able to kill Thorek. And...I won’t ask what you did, but I see you...took care of Veren.”

She nodded faintly, resting her hand on her forehead. “’S’an old trick I learned in Mor’wind...from me gran’fath’r. Used...most o’ me magic though…”

“Will you be alright?”

“Yeah...jus’ need t’rest for a second...what about you?”

He didn’t answer and she cracked open one eye to see him standing facing away from her, looking at Thorek’s battered carcass in the hall. 

“I...knew Veren and Thorek,” he said almost inaudibly. “They were my friends.”

Hekatah raised her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Is this punishment for my past?” he continued. He seemed to have become lost in his thoughts. “Is it Mara’s will to torment me so?”

She sat up and leaned against the wall. “Oi. They tried to kill you...they said such terrible things...they had to die.”

He turned back towards her and the ever-present melancholy in his eyes was more prevalent than she’d seen it before. “Yes...you’re right. They...they had to die.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Please. It had nothing to do with you.” He inhaled deeply. “It’s time. The Skull must be destroyed. Please, stay where you are, and I’ll perform the ritual granted to me by Lady Mara.”

She slumped back to the floor. “You don’t hafta tell me twice…trust me, I’m not going anywhere like this…”

“Er...right. Then I’ll just…” She heard him approach the Skull, and call upon the Divine of Love to help him destroy it, and then, as she lay with a pounding in her ears, she heard another voice, a silky, seductive woman’s voice, that was not coming from the Temple, but from inside her.

_He's deceiving you._

Her eyes snapped open.

_When the ritual's complete, the Skull will be free and then Erandur will turn on you. You are weakened in your lack of Magicka, and he knows that. Once he lays his hands on the Skull, he will kill you._

“I don’t believe you,” Hekatah muttered. The voice spoke again, this time with urgency. 

_You must defend yourself! Get up! Quickly! Kill him now. Kill him and claim the Skull for your own! Vaermina commands you!_

“Even if I wanted to...I couldn’t. Besides...if you’re lying to me, and I obey...then I’ve just killed a man who saved me life for no reason...fuck off.”

Vaermina began to speak once more, but she was cut off as the Skull of Corruption shattered, cast into the realm of Oblivion its master resided in, and severing her connection to the mortal world. And, both as Hekatah had expected, and to her delight, Erandur did not harm her. Instead, he returned to her side glimmering with holiness and weary, and sat down beside her. 

“So it’s done,” she murmured, choosing not to tell him what had happened during the ritual. “Was it worth it?”

“Yes, but forgive me if I don’t appear relieved. This temple has taken its toll on me.”

“What now? What are you gonna do next?”

“Well,” he began. “Truth is...I'd constructed a meager shrine to Mara in the antechamber where we entered. My intention was to spend the rest of my years here, burying the past and praying for forgiveness. But instead, I wish to offer my services to you. If you ever wish to journey with me...I'll be here."


End file.
